


Glass Threads

by eponymous_rose



Category: Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: 1000-3000 words, 1960s, Action/Adventure, Canon - TV, Drama, Gen, POV Third Person, Pre-Canon, Spies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-15
Updated: 2009-11-15
Packaged: 2017-10-02 22:46:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eponymous_rose/pseuds/eponymous_rose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Napoleon and Illya find themselves the sole survivors of their first mission together; tempers flare as they await rescue in THRUSH-infested woods.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Glass Threads

The combination of darkness and silence in the old cabin unsettled Napoleon more than he'd care to admit; it didn't help that his nerves were jangling and his ears were still ringing with the long-finished echo of gunfire.

That made three bodies in this miserable forest - Smitty, Leland and Lau, all senior Enforcement agents, all considerably less expendable than the two survivors. Waverly would be apoplectic: for an instant, Napoleon was relieved that there was nowhere to plug in his communicator, but he stifled the thought with a surge of guilt. Kuryakin had the microfilm - or said he did, at least, though with his typical stubbornness he'd categorically refused to produce it for Napoleon - and they were within a few THRUSH-infested miles of the morning's prescribed pickup point.

If they could make it through the night without killing each other, Napoleon supposed they might just have a chance.

Having finished another pointless sweep of the room for bugs - the dust piled heavily enough on the wooden floor that it would have been obvious if anyone had passed by - Napoleon slumped back into a chair, which gave an alarming creak at his weight. He glanced over to Kuryakin, who was huddled on the floor, taking his turn to rest for the night, but the other man didn't seem to have been startled by the noise.

That was just further proof that he wasn't actually sleeping - earlier in the night, Napoleon had noticed the catch in his otherwise even breathing, caught a flicker of movement out of the corner of his eye. Too damn stubborn, too mistrustful to sleep under Napoleon's watch even though he was clearly exhausted - but then, after Smitty'd been shot in a clearing that intelligence reports suggested was clean, they'd all been wary of each other. Napoleon was inclined to believe that the traitor, if any, lay among the dead, if only because Kuryakin's open hostility made him a far too obvious candidate.

All the same, Napoleon knew he'd be sleeping with one eye open during Kuryakin's watch.

"Look," said Napoleon, and was gratified to see Kuryakin start guiltily at the sound of his voice, "you can lay off the Sleeping Beauty routine."

There was a pause, and then the figure at the other side of the room shifted and coughed. "Feeling lonely?" he said, but his voice was incongruously low and threatening.

Napoleon rolled his eyes. "I'd just rather not think you're about to pounce on me every time I sneeze. Why bother pretending?"

Kuryakin rolled over to peer at him blearily, his pallor apparent even in the dim half-light against his bloodstained clothes - Napoleon realized that he mustn't look much better, and ran a hand through his hair with an unexpected twinge of self-consciousness, tugging at the collar of his torn suit. "If you cannot stay awake without conversation," Kuryakin said, eyes glinting with an incisive clarity that belied his bedraggled appearance, "perhaps you would be better suited to something a bit less strenuous. I hear Section Three needs a new courier."

Napoleon straightened in his chair, knowing full well that he was rising to the bait and hating himself for it. "I may not be CEA," he said, and Lau's face, contorted in agony, flickered into his memory, "but I am now the senior Enforcement agent on this mission."

"It's funny how these things work out," Kuryakin said, and Napoleon was out of his chair and halfway across the room before he realized what he was doing. Kuryakin didn't move, still huddled on the ground, but his eyes took on a hint of derisive humour as Napoleon forced himself to stop short.

"I think," Napoleon said, keeping his breathing even and his hands at his sides, "that you should apply for a transfer to Section Eight as soon as we return to New York. Waverly tells me you're good in the labs."

Kuryakin finally hitched himself up into a sitting position, breathing hard. "Is this the part where you tell me that if I pursue my career in Section Two, I wouldn't just have THRUSH bullets to worry about?"

Napoleon paused for a moment as the pieces came together, then advanced again on Kuryakin, whose shoulders squared almost imperceptibly, though he still didn't stand. "You're bleeding, Kuryakin," he said, and crouched down beside him.

That caught him off-guard; Kuryakin's eyes widened briefly in confusion, and he snatched at Napoleon's wrist before he could attempt to peel away the layers of bloodstained clothing that had been concealing what looked like a bullet wound in his side.

His hand was cold, and Napoleon jerked his own arm away in irritation. "We've lost too many agents in this forest for you to be playing the stoic martyr," he said, and felt a shiver that had nothing to do with the chill of the room as he noticed the smears of blood on the floor where Kuryakin had been resting; the Russian could have bled to death during the night, and he'd never have known. "I'm gonna need your help getting out of here in the morning; you're not much use to me dead."

He reached out again, and Kuryakin shank back with a hiss of pain. Napoleon grimaced and raised his hands, admitting defeat. "Why the hell didn't you say anything?"

"I would not slow you down," Kuryakin said, his voice oddly breathless, eyes still wide. "I could keep pace, and I can still fire a gun."

"All right," said Napoleon. "If you say so. You look like you'd fall over as soon as you tried standing, though."

He knew that was a mistake as soon as he caught the defiant glimmer in Kuryakin's eyes; the man made it halfway to his feet before he gasped and fell, avoiding Napoleon's outstretched hand to crash inelegantly to the floor.

"Yeah," Napoleon said mildly, as Kuryakin struggled back to a sitting position. "I can see how you'd be an asset to me."

He was startled to catch a flicker of what could only be fear in the other man's eyes, and then Kuryakin was reaching clumsily for his gun.

His movements were uncoordinated enough that it was the work of an instant for Napoleon to reach out and disarm him; Kuryakin fell back with a cry. Not entirely sure what else he could do under the circumstances, Napoleon kept the UNCLE Special trained on him.

"And what," he said, "was that all about?"

Kuryakin was now staring at the gun with an unsettling, fatalistic calm. "I was going to demand that you take me with you," he said, his voice strangely soft, "but I accept that my death is necessary to ensure the success of this mission."

Lowering the gun, Napoleon stared at him. "What?" From the way Kuryakin's eyes shifted to the weapon, Napoleon knew he was preparing himself to make another leap for it. "Have you gone completely insane?" After a moment's hesitation, Napoleon held the gun out to Kuryakin. "Take it, if that's what you want. I've gotta warn you that Waverly frowns at his own agents taking pot shots at each other, though."

Kuryakin made no move to do so, shivering as his eyes flickered from the weapon to Napoleon's gaze.

And then realization struck Napoleon with enough force that he had to keep from laughing at the sheer absurdity of the situation. "Wait," he said, "you think I'm going to kill you because you'd slow me down? That's why you wouldn't show me the microfilm, isn't it? You thought I'd take it and leave you for dead."

The perplexed look on Kuryakin's face would have been comical under any other circumstances, and Napoleon damped down some of the incredulity in his voice. "That's not how we operate here, _tovarisch_. Not today. Not after Lau and Smitty and Leland. We'll both get out of this."

Frowning, Kuryakin finally took his gun back, and winced as he twisted to put it back in its holster. "Then I think you are possibly more foolish than everyone says," he whispered.

"The word is 'lucky'," Napoleon said, grinning. "Now, let me take a look at that bullet hole of yours before you bleed to death and it becomes a moot point."

And later, much later, when the rumours started flying around H.Q. about the mission that had killed three of the best agents on record, about the whispers of betrayal surrounding Waverly's pet Russian, Napoleon found himself moving further and further away from the old groups of friends, the ones who'd gather clandestinely at bars to discuss matters of global importance over a pint.

He stood beside Kuryakin's bed in the infirmary, delivering a bouquet of flowers from one of the more audacious girls in Section Five, and knew that something had changed. "You revolutionaries are all alike," he said to the sleeping form, pale and insubstantial against the bleached sheets. "Eventually, you wind up dragging everyone else along with you."

Napoleon turned to leave, glanced back briefly, and shut the door behind him.


End file.
